Shattered
by underscored umlaut
Summary: A family torn apart. A monster captured. The Rebel attack on Lavach left more than a gaping hole in the castle's grounds. (Intertrilogy AU. Some OCs, no pairings. Will be updated monthly.)
1. Shattered

Prologue: Shattered

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"...Oh, gods..."

"I can't believe it..."

"...impossible!"

"How...?"

Your eyes open to a chaotic blur of light and colors and sound (but not smell, you no longer have that) and oh so many sensations you're overwhelmed, _oh Force oh gods help me out_ you should think, but your mind is just too blank, too tired, and your eyes feel like closing again...

"...awake..."

"...restrained..."

Your world turns dark as your eyelids touch the tired circles under your eyes, but the voices are still there, muted whispers reverberating, melting into nothing like ice in blistering heat...

Heat. Fire. _Pandemonium._

Your eyes snap open, just like the explosion that rocked your world a _day? week? month? year? lifetime?_ ago. Where are you now? Why do you feel so weak, so naked, so... empty? Why don't you remember anything before this situation (whatever this is), just jumbled, meaningless flashes? Why can you only remember one thing? This ubiquitous, intangible (yet you know it's reachable, _somehow_) presence... What is this thing? Why is it following you, promising things beyond your reach?

Thinking has taken too much of your forcefully-repressed energy. You suddenly remember that you should breathe. You gasp and gasp, but your chest is tight—thankfully, you notice the oxygen mask clinging to your face. Your ruined lungs sing in joy, expanding and contracting in relief as precious air fill your alveoli.

But not in a nearly enough amount. Enough to keep yourself awake, but not refreshed. Just like those days with your master—_oh Force, I'm remembering! I'm remembering! I'm—_

"I see you're awake,"

You take another breath, trying your best to focus on the face— if there _is_ indeed a face—of the speaker before you, but no matter how watery your eyes are becoming, your vision still blurs in places, and you squint as another memory comes back to mind: you require optical aid.

"...Can you...can you see me?" the voice asks, hesitant. You shake your head. No use lying here, you think, but the back of your mind keeps tingling, warning you for reasons unknown...

You hear some rustling as the only violet in the white room moves towards you. "Can you see me now?" Your eyes try to meet his (or are they _hers_?), to no avail. You shake your head once more. "But you can hear me, right? Sir?"

_Sir._ The title tugs on your subconscious.

_But why would anyone call me that? I'm not..._ That tingling again.

"Sir? Can you hear my voice?"

You nod.

"Very good," the voice says. "Now I would like your cooperation in this."

_Cooperation?_ Why is that word so familiar... Painfully so...

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.

_"You've failed again!"_

_Then fire flies from pale, gnarled hands..._

_._

_._

"...Sir?"

(The violet being's voice cuts your train of thoughts, but for once, you're thankful. You remember what it entailed.)

You incline your head in acknowledgment.

"We will retrieve your armor before the questioning session,"

You freeze, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. _Armor,_ he says. Armor. Armor means protection. Support. From blaster bolts. Vibroblades. From danger... Life-support! Your memories begin to trickle back into you, one wheeze of a respirator at a time...

The violet being speaks again, but he misunderstands. "We'll only ask you a few questions, there's no need to worry..."

Few questions? Why do they need to do so? You only remember a "mission"... A royal family cowering in fear... Then everything went black. And there was heat, and pain, excruciating pain... What have you done wrong?

"...Lord Vader?"

The moment you hear that name, you remember everything.

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**Hello! I'm underscored umlaut, also known as Reg, and this is my first fanfiction on this site. Tell me what you think- be it a simple praise or a wall of text insulting my grammar- they can help me improve. Thank you for reading!**

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**Chapter One - Complete**

**Chapter Two - In Progress**

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**Huge thanks to Talicor and my sister for the support!**


	2. Flight

**Disclaimer: The real question is not "do I own Star Wars?", but "does Star Wars own me?"**

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Chapter One: Flight

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Finera pulled her hood lower, covering her face, before gesturing to her little brother to do the same. There was a scuffle of rough cloth (the cloaks had been extracted from a random citizen's conveniently-placed basket case), then his small hands fitted back into her palm. With sweaty hands, she squeezed them reassuringly—well, she _tried_, but she had never seen such dark alleys and unfriendly faces before. To make it worse, the intoxicating smell of spice filled the air, competing with the thick, gray smoke from the factories that provided for Lavach's citizens (her homeworld had no notable export—_save for Rebels, apparently,_ she muttered, bitterness and grief twisting her voice) and the dumpster just around the corner.

"Fin," a small voice, her brother, cut into her increasingly dark thoughts. "Where're we going?"

She may be a royal, sheltered and spoiled, but she had had basic self-defense training. And enough brains and credits to fend for herself and little Quinze, at least for the week. (Or more if they were more frugal, though she sincerely doubted it.) "Not now, Quin," she whispered to his head, pulling the five-year-old closer to the folds of her cloak. They didn't have contacts or anything else that could help them hide or go off planet. She'd contemplated stowing away, but judging from the giant spearheads in the sky, that wasn't an option.

Finera then led her brother to said dumpster-corner, ignoring the illegal dealers as best as she could. When two men fought for a suspicious-looking box, vibroblades poised to kill, her hands flew to Quin's eyes. She knew he'd probably lost his innocence after the attack on the Palace, but she didn't wish to scar him further. Inching further from the scene, she cupped a hand over her nose and mouth, barely keeping herself from vomiting when the sharp, coppery scent of blood added to the assault on her olfactory senses.

"Fin," Quin's muffled sob was emphasized by the frantic tugging on her cloak. "I'm scared."

She shushed him softly, awkwardly stroking his messy bangs to the rhythm of their joined footsteps.

_Click._

The sound wasn't that loud, but paranoia caused her to perk up anyway. She knew what that sound meant. Lifting Quinze's body to her chest, she quickly shifted her gaze to her shoes and hastened her pace with as little noise as humanly possible, having read enough crime novels to know that inconspicuous beings had a better chance to live in any underworld.

Evidently, it wasn't enough. The crowd grew louder and the clicking became more abrupt, followed by rapping feet in armored boots...

So she ran.

She ran and ran and ran without looking, pushing through beings and contraptions of every kind, tripping and panting and sweating as her heart pounded against Quin's head. She cursed herself, her luck, and Imperials with words a princess shouldn't have known, but she figured it wouldn't matter if they were dead. She had to protect Quin, fulfill her parents' unsaid dying wish...

"There they are! Set for stun!"

The trooper's order wasn't even noticed—bloodrush and barely remembered prayers to the gods were the only things in her ears. In her mind was only safety.

"Fin!"

Her feet, adrenaline-fueled (and torn and bruised, she shouldn't have worn these blasted heels) as they were, stopped as the shrill cry broke her concentration. She stumbled forward, falling into an undignified heap, not that she cared about that right now. With a _gasp-cringe-gasp-curse-gasp_ of pain, shaky hands gripped a handful of earth and tiny, sharp pebbles, propping their master's aching body up... Finera kept her eyes shut as she straightened herself in vain, willing her muscles to just refresh, quick, quick, quick, Quinze completely forgotten in the wake of bleeding knees.

The stun bolts came before she could lift her head.

.:oOo:.

"Get up."

Gloved hands hoisted her upwards, but she didn't quite register the touch. Despite this, she could make up an all too familiar white... Her first instinct was to break free, to escape, but she felt... so... _sleepy..._

She slumped to the trooper's shoulder, oblivious to the big, ugly bruise forming on her forehead.

.:oOo:.

The Imperial officer strode purposefully to the detention center, the IT-O hovering behind him all the way. He had been tasked on extracting the whereabouts of the Rebels who had taken Lord Vader hostage from... _Quinze Randa,_ he reminded himself. The young prince of Lavach, a seemingly backwards planet on the Mid Rim.

_The planet isn't as backwards as we think, then,_ he thought, _if it had hidden that many Rebels... and arranged a bombing so near the Palace without wiping out the royal family. And actually had Darth kriffing Vader hostage!_ The man shook his head in bewilderment. Anyone who'd heard of the dark lord's armor and strange powers would.

Forcing himself out of his thoughts of bombs and the possible death of his commander, he directed his feet to the right direction (those 'engineers' never made those 'directions' clear) and focused on the prisoner's bio again.

A grainy holo stared back at him. The prince's features were rounded, terribly so, and his smiling face, a shade of olive while his bangs covered one of his twinkling dark eyes, was brighter than the sun of his home planet.

He looked so young, the Imperial thought. _Too young._ When had this holo been taken?

The man scrolled down the document. _Royal crest, name, homeworld...date of birth..._

The numbers _16:5:19_ greeted him.

He froze. The photo was taken recently and the prince had been born just days before the birth of the Empire. He pursed his lips together, suddenly feeling cold. _Now is the year 21,_ he thought, appalled. _Who in the nine hells made this order? Who in their right mind would interrogate a five-year-old? Why not the princess?_ She looked like she was in her mid-to-late teens, judging from the troopers' story, he could be used as a means of persuasion... He quickly closed the boy's bio and read the girl's to make sure.

_Full name: Her Highness, Princess Finera Randa_

_Homeworld: Lavach, Noipa System, Mid Rim_

_Born: 4:6:18_

The girl was seventeen, he sighed in relief. But could he disobey a direct order?

.:oOo:.

"Order!"

High Command fell silent as Mon Mothma's voice rang across the room. The former senator of Chandrila fought the ever-increasing urge to yell at her fellow Alliance leaders, who had debated for how long, she had no desire to know.

Unfortunately, the silence didn't last long. Shouts of bloody murder and lifelong imprisonments flew in and out Mon's ears. She had known from the start that most of her colleagues wished for Vader to be executed for his crimes right away, but she knew the Sith Lord had valuable information that could be of immense help to their cause.

She risked a glance at her friend Bail Organa, who watched the scene with no less worry. He thought the same as her, but how could they quench the bloodlust of the majority? She may be their revered leader, but what she had was far from absolute power. Democracy must be upheld, every decision made had to be for the greater good. The needs of one had to be sacrificed for those of many...

Are wants needs, though? she wondered. She herself—and her loved ones—hadn't been exempt from Vader's cruelty, and no matter how much she tried to hide it, the thirst for retribution was still there...

But sense won over vengeance, and Mon Mothma's lips parted towards reason.

.:oOo:.

Finera woke up to the telltale beeps and clicks of operating computers—and her aching body, she groaned, the realization hitting her like a literal ton of rocks. She found that her joints were stiff and her throat parched, and gods, was that her _stomach_?

"Ah, you're finally up," an unfamiliar voice said silkily, "I almost think you wouldn't, Your Highness."

Her then-groggy eyes widened at the sight of the voice's owner. In the dimly lit, cramped space, the colorful lights of the console cast an eerie glow around him. The dull light of security footages illuminated his face—lined with age and a wicked smile.

"Princess Finera, isn't it?" the man asked, moving closer towards her like a hungry predator to its prey, "second in line for Lavach's throne?"

A spike of panic shot through her at his recognition. The drug-induced fog clouding her mind suddenly evaporated, flooding her with fear and dread, and _oh gods where's Quinze why isn't he with me is he alive is he safe, why in the krething hells aren't I with him—_

She screamed and squirmed and tried to wriggle herself to freedom, but was stopped by a pair of cold, strong hands reinforcing her restraints. One of said hands proceeded to lift her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Don't worry, Princess," he purred, "your brother is safe for the time being."

Finera's breath hitched at the implications. "The time being?" she cried, but the Imperial officer offered no answer, pushing her seat forward instead. "W-what are you doing? What d'you mean?"

"His safety, Your Highness, is in your hands," the man replied.

"My... my hands?" she couldn't help but blurt out.

The man's smile widened. "You'll see soon enough."

And saw it she did. The largest screen, the one directly facing her, showed a scene she'd hoped she would never witness.

Quin, her innocent brother, her only remaining family, was curling in a fetal position, a syringe right above his exposed neck.

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**Since the midterms are coming soon, I'm trying to update quickly when I still can. How was this chapter? Good? Bad? So-so? Your opinion, in whatever packaging, is appreciated :)**

**For those of you wanting to see canon characters, please be patient. This story will be quite slow-moving, and might be darkish at places.**

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**Chapter Two - in progress**

**Chapter Three - in progress**

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**Thanks a million to Talicor, froovygirl, and Bub for reviewing, also IntelEwok for the follow! You guys made my day.**

**See ya!**


	3. Conflict

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, it's the other way around.**

**A/N: My sister and Talicor deserve a monument each. Or two. On top of the world.**

**(I'm sorry for the long wait! Real Life ****wouldn't let me go... So now that it had, enjoy this chapter!)**

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~ Chapter Two: Conflict ~

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"...Lord Vader?"

The moment you hear that name, you remember everything.

A woman crying, warm brown eyes never leaving the hands that took you away...

And years pass after that, each filled with training. Or torture. You couldn't distinguish between the two.

The Force, the power at your fingertips that was much more than the weaker nuances your master undisclosed, you used in secret to sense, to manipulate, to destroy...

But lies couldn't be kept under wraps forever. Whips. Water. Electricity. Simulations. Never knowing whether or not you were alive, driven with only hatred and a desire to survive...

And came more missions. Pirates, mercenaries, you met all kinds of people with unique minds and fighting style.

You remember dodging blow after blow and running for dear life in a bustling undercity, be it a fist or a knife or a ticking detonator...

Then fire. Blinding lights. The unforgiving whirr of machines drilling into your limbs, tearing away your humanity cell by cell...

The day you earned your new name plays before you like an interactive holodrama. You cannot stop or alter its flow, but you feel the words roll on your tongue as your old self ebbed away, out of your armor into the world you can no longer touch—

It was the last nail to the coffin. Your raging emotions burst through your corporeal form. Before, it was boiling, simmering in the distance, shaking the medical paraphernalia around you, but now glass shatter, machines overload and the lights overhead short-circuit; you can feel the three beings literally freeze in fear and the gaping hole inside you devours it.

Despite your sudden assault, one of them broke through the storm, shaky feet taking slow, careful steps. You sneer at the Twi'lek's pitiful attempt and the women's lack thereof—

Until a sharp pain pulls you out of consciousness.

.:oOo:.

And you are falling.

The wind rushes in your ears, whipping your hair in every direction as the ground rushes up to meet you.

You try to see through misty eyes, blinking back tears to see only hands, black hands clawing and pushing and tangling each other in such a high speed they blur—

But you see that they are reaching out for you. For your body, your heart, your very soul.

_Join us,_ they whisper, voices of steel and honey coalescing into one, inviting, waiting ever so patiently, _and we'll never let you fall like this again..._

You want to take that hand, to take on the galaxy and prove yourself that you are worthy of that power, of the wholeness you lost and never quite reached—

Suddenly, a bright light seeps in from the cracks on the stone walls surrounding you, washing them in a color so pure you feel _small-helpless-afraid-_ashamed...

Flashes of your life—the people you met, the choices you took, the little things you took for granted, _everything_—start to play before your eyes. _What have you done right?_ another voice yells. _How many innocents have you killed? How many people had their homes destroyed by your hand?_

A part of you rebels, shifting the blame to others—the mother who abandoned you, the devil who caged you, and of course, the common people who refused the iron fist, the infallible wisdom of the empire you serve.

But the other, the one with common sense, remembers all the choices made with less-than-pure intentions, the fire of a ruined world, the dying eyes pleading for the war to just end...

_No! Return to us,_ says the darkness. _We will help you be strong again. So strong that he will never find a reason to end you._

_Don't!_ the light counters. _Remember the lies, the hell he put you through! Think about the lives lost, the rights ignored..._

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately block the voices out.

Finally, the walls part, revealing two familiar figures—the female Human and the male Twi'lek—arguing about something.

Seeing the obviously friendly way they bicker, despite the woman's rough exterior, you are brought back to the days before all this, days of reconnaissance and disguise, making false friends and stabbing them in the back afterwards (_"for the greater good,"_ you hear someone—_yourself?_—mutter)...

_Do you really miss those days?_

At that question, the light and darkness return ferociously, demanding answer after answer after answer.

But you focus on the two people instead; their voices are getting louder and louder...

.:oOo:.

_Stars,_ Nerek thought, burying his face in his hands, _why did I accept this job again?_

Well... it wasn't like he hated it, not really... though the pay wasn't very good—he'd even suspected that his portable HoloNet receiver was worth more than his salary—at least he had a relatively steady roof over him and a sturdy mattress to sleep on.

But this was just too much.

He let out another groan as the still-empty Patient Record glared back at him. One of his profession's most important mantra was "expect the unexpected", especially in an organization like the Alliance, but judging from his initial overly dramatic reaction over that—he wouldn't mention that... _patient's_ name again unless it was absolutely necessary. He couldn't associate the words—Nerek mentally bleeped them out—with utter death and destruction anymore. The image of the person under the armor re-ignited that spark he'd thought was long gone. That very image made him ask himself, how could something—someone—so vulnerable, almost _beautiful_, could turn into such a monster? How could the Rebels not know this before? How this? How that? How—

He gritted his teeth in frustration. If he'd never envied human hair before, he did now. He felt like pulling something out of his head, but pulling his own lekkus was stupid, not to mention dangerous... A list of side effects came unbidden to his mind (no thanks to his medical training), stabbing holes into his head in the form of a migraine.

He should get some sleep, he thought, eyeing the chrono on the edge of his desk, but Command wanted this report on theirs in... he squinted, less than an hour.

Wait.

_Less than an hour?_

That meant a detailed explanation before the Rebellion's highest in a few minutes... could he even present anything in this state, though?

He looked back at the unchanged form on the datapad, pursing his lips together.

Should I tell them about the... (he squeezed his eyes shut, stylus almost breaking under the pressure of his tightening fist) ...man behind the mask?

Should he?

It was his duty, wasn't it?

That stupid Imperial, face mangled yet so young, _far too young_, came back with full force—oh stars, he had to remember what he was fighting for! But... but Vader seemed so helpless, so human... he _couldn't_!

_But Vader isn't a mere enemy, Nerek!_ another voice, no, voices of the not-so-imaginary slaves of the Empire, of all the dead Jedi, of the oppressed civilians for the seemingly endless war, cried. _He's the enemy! Don't you dare forget what he's done to you, to your homeworld, to the galaxy! Don't you ever! You can do this! You should do this!_

The Twi'lek massaged his forehead with a hand and propped his pounding head with the other. _Shut up,_ Nerek willed himself, _shut up shut up shut up!_

"Etlaas,"

Nerek jumped at the cold touch of an all-too-familiar hand. His head snapped back, leaving a cramped neck in its wake, but the pain was far in the back of his head. What's important, he thought, eyebrows furrowing, is _how did she get here?_

"Ziven!" he cried, swiveling his chair to face the Human medic, who had her green eyes set in her usual concerned-yet-pissed look. "What are you doing here?!"

Iché Ziven, who claimed to be the roughest Nubian in history, always meant well, but her methods of encouragement were... er, questionable. One would've thought being a doctor changed that, but— "Looking after you, of course," she snapped back, slamming a cup of steaming caf onto his table, "and don't look at me like that! At least I didn't go all out and dump a bucket of icy water on you."

Nerek's stomach dropped at her too-loud voice. "Quiet!" he hissed, pointing at the figure just behind the looking glass.

"Oh, yeah, Vader," Ziven drawled, glancing at the unconscious Imperial, "the Dark Lord who's actually—"

_"Sssh!"_

She scoffed, planting her fists on her hips. "Fine. Now drink the caf, I'll help you with the form."

The eyes peering from the large mug were full of gratitude.

"You're welcome," Ziven said as she settled into the seat beside him, stylus at the ready.

.:oOo:.

If Iché had been frustrated before, she had no idea what to call this annoying mix of worry, impatience, and, well, annoyance. Etlaas was usually the sensible one among the _not-exactly-a-clique-but-more-like-forcefully-united-Empire-haters_ of field medics, but when something started tickling his conscience, tugging his pansy heartstrings, he would panic like all hell broke loose.

_That's what you get when you take a fresh graduate__—__one with a severe book obsession, she might add__—__to this madness,_ she thought, muttering expletives under her breath for the man's persuasive best friend.

"Ziven, are you sure you're writing that?" Etlaas asked, peering from behind her shoulder, his voice barely a squeak.

Iché let out a long-suffering sigh. She didn't give a kriff if they looked unprofessional, she'd even grow out her hair just to make her colleague man up. "Nerek, dear," she replied through gritted teeth, "you can't lie on a blasted medical record..." She scanned the form downwards and tsked. "How old is Vader, anyway? Have you analyzed the DNA samples?"

Nerek's hot, short puffs of breath sent shivers down her spine.

"Believe it or not," he answered glumly, with the tiniest hint of... _sorrow? confusion? anger?_ She couldn't quite put her finger on it... activating the scanner to its backlog menu.

When the screen flashed on, she squinted, craning her neck. The little numerals seemed to be mocking her, what with their... _I don't believe it,_ she denied, rubbing her eyes. And she did a double take. Still, the numbers neither increased nor turned into a 'Congratulations! You have been pranked!'.

Nerek gave her a weak nod.

"Twenty-eight? Palpatine's friggin' _heir _is younger than me?"

"By a year," she heard him mutter, but she ignored it, slumping back to her chair with a hand scratching her chin. Vader's parents must've done a really poor job... or were they proud of their prodigious child? Shaking her head, she continued filling the blanks, occasionally asking Etlaas for confirmation or additional data, as he'd been the one who actually tended to Vader. She kind-of felt sorry for him, as she and Cora were the seniors (well, in a sense, as she'd been Cora's apprentice in the Galactic Senate Medical Service), but gods knew Nerek needed it. _You can't have too much experience in the medical field,_ her professor had said, presenting the dumbstruck youngsters a slurring, shaking, ice-cold almost-corpse in all its glory...

She shook off the memory again in favor of completing the form, which was now almost full.

"Anything else?" she inquired, setting the stylus on the desk.

Etlaas pondered this for several seconds, biting his upper lip as he did so. "Well," he began, straightening the wrinkles on his coat as he met her questioning gaze with a small smile, "I did find something interesting... But you gotta thank Cora. She gave me the idea."

He thrust his hand into his inner pocket, producing a datapad. "She consulted with Tech—you know, Florence and Geimar and all that, and behold!" With a low, accented voice and a fluid hand gesture towards the 'pad, he mimicked the the other woman's enthusiasm. "The specs of Vader's entire armor!"

"Wow," Iché breathed out, marveling at the sheer complexity of the life-support system. She looked up at the younger man. "What did she find?"

His face looked torn, as if he and Cora had had another of their rare, heated arguments and lost. The two had always been the brains, but Cora's three decades of service (as opposed to Etlaas' three years), had desensitized her. The Mirialan could position herself as a caring almost-friend to patients, but she would die before she sugarcoated anything she said.

"This..." He gulped, "this suit is substandard."

Iché had expected something far-fetched for an answer, but this was far from it. "What do you mean?" she asked, zooming into the waste management system, "these models are quite new, they've been proven safe for most species in various cases including—"

Etlaas looked outraged, long fingers enlarging the inside view hundredfold."Can't you see it? These prosthetics are made of an inferior alloy, for one! The hinges rust, not unlike ordinary metals, making it necessary for routine repairs. The pistons are strong, yes, but the design is too skeletal to effectively—" he shook his head in frustration. "And look at the wires," he panted, "they also need constant maintenance... Not to mention the foreign stimulants..." He trailed off, wiping his tears.

She blanched. _(When did he cry? Why?)_ "Foreign... stimulants?"

"Exactly," he continued, pulling out a vial from the pocket of his coat. "Some of the chemicals, like Rennod-3, trigger violent reactions by sending certain signals trough neurons—the ones leading to the frontal lobe, and this one (he put down the vial and sifted through the numerous intravenous feeds in the suit, stopping at a glowing liquid)... while it increases Vader's pain threshold, it also influences the subconscious, particularly emotions, in a way that cannot be explained in medical terms... this substance can't be found in the Alliance database, either. Cora asked the slicers to hack into the Imperial's, but..."

"It's firewalled," Iché finished grimly, "but by whom?"

"Someone up high, I'd reckon," Etlaas sighed, "nothing in the HoloNet could resist Geimar's tricks before..."

"The Imperial databank is a separate branch from the HoloNet," another voice cut in, followed by an irritated Cora. "Can't you two stop fighting like children and look at the time?"

The two froze.

Iché, however, recovered first, taking a glance at the chronometer. "Great, kriffing—"

_"Iché,"_ Cora said sternly.

With a sheepish smile, she snatched the form from her colleague's desk and turned to him. "Any last-minute changes, Etlaas?"

"No," he said quietly. Too quietly. _(What's he planning?)_

"You, Cora?"

The middle-aged woman gave the form a long look. "You've heard about the armor's defects, I take it?" she asked. The Nubian nodded. "Write them all," Cora ordered. "Quickly."

"Let me do it."

Dismissing her previous thought as paranoia, Iché handed him the pad. Nerek scrambled for the stylus, pouring his heart out, and signed. The women followed.

"Done," Cora said hastily, saving the document as they made their way to the Command Center. "Now let's go."

Neither she nor Ziven saw Nerek crossing his fingers, muttering a prayer.

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**Yay! It's finally done. I was so happy when I finished this chapter... fevers are not nice.**

**Anyway, I apologize once more for the wait. I'll try to update monthly after this.**

**Thanks for reading, reviewing, subscribing and favoriting!**

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**Chapter Three - haven't even started!**

**But I do have half of the story outlined. Don't worry, I won't abandon this project! :)**

**Auf Wiedersehen! :D**

**Reg**


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